


On Duty

by quicksparrows



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick cannot sort out how to commit himself to his duty and a courtship at the same time, and Cherche gives him an ultimatum. How to ask permission for something you feel is selfish? How to overcome pride? What if he's not a good enough lover? How does one deal with Virion being so irritating? Frederick doesn't know, but he sorts it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Duty

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those pieces I worked over like, several million times and just decided to finish it to get it the hell out of my brain. Also, I love Virion.
> 
> And look, ma, I figured out line breaks. Formatting text is the bane of my existence.

 

                She moans his name.

                No, not Frederick’s – _Virion’s_.

                Frederick slows his thrusts for a moment, but Cherche doesn’t seem to have noticed; she is understandably distracted in the throes of an orgasm, and she grips Frederick’s hips with her powerful thighs so hard that he has difficultly extricating himself when he decides that is what he ought to do. Cherche breathes hard, and she presses her face against the crook of his neck and rides through his last few thrusts. Then Frederick stills to just lay atop of her, feeling her shivers run through his own torso, trying to figure out if he heard her right. Had he imagined it? He feels shaken.

                “Frederick,” she says, breathily. “At last! Thank you.”

                He’s exhausted after an hour of this summarily wasted on the wrong name, and somehow her thanks feels a little hollow. He himself has been long finished, after all. Cherche settles into the crook of his arm, cuddled up close. She had said _Virion_ , hadn’t she? She had. Virion doesn’t sound anything like Frederick.

                Frederick hates himself for even thinking about it, but it drives him mad. He and Cherche are so similar in some regards, and yet their approach to duty varies terribly; it is not difficult to imagine her bedding with Virion, and it is difficult, if not impossible, to shelve his sense of duty and tradition to ignore that. It troubles him deeply.

                And Cherche, evidently satisfied but sleepy in the aftermath, does not seem troubled at all. She’s quiet, so quiet that it is as deafening as it is damning, and it is quite unlike their usual banter. He cannot stop thinking, and she does not offer any conversation, either.

                “Have you slept with Virion?” he asks her, quietly.

                Cherche looks at him, unsurprised but unfortunately cool. Frederick is somewhat put off that there is no sense of shame, no apology in her expression.

                “He is my lord,” she says, simply.

                Frederick bristles, just slightly. “You have said yourself many times that you are your own woman.”

                Cherche sighs – a rare noise from her, given that she is generally so permissive. She untangles herself from his arm and sits up in bed so that all Frederick can see is the long expanse of her back and her tousled hair, and her face is hidden from him entirely.

                “Frederick,” she says, as though she is annoyed with him, “Virion and I are not as you and your charges are. Chrom and Lissa are children to you, but I have given my service to a man.”

                “A man?” Frederick repeats, somewhat indignant. “He is a _dog_. And what form of _service_ demands that?”

                She ignores him.

                “ _Cherche_ ,” he says, when she says nothing.

                “You’re asking foolish questions,” she says. “Be calm, Frederick. This does not become you.”

 _I know that,_ Frederick thinks, but he doesn’t confess to it. Instead, he props himself up on an elbow to crane his neck at her, though he doesn’t see any better for it. His mind rushes around, a thousand thoughts slipping away from him before he dares articulate them.

                “We have been crawling into each other’s beds for several weeks now,” he says, finally. He’s not sure where he can take that argument without impugning on her honour, and though the temptation is strong his good sense stays his tongue.

                Cherche does look at him, then, unimpressed.

                “And?” she prompts.

                “And I had thought I would not be hearing another man’s name from a woman I make such indiscretions for,” he says, pointedly. “A woman I have serious intentions towards.”

                Surprise crosses her face, fleeting as can be, and then it is gone. Frederick feels a mounting sense of dread. She’d expected him to point out the name – it’s the hint of seriousness to this affair that surprises to her. Why does it _surprise_ her?

                “Sir Frederick,” she says, as if she could soften him with words alone. “You would make a far greater husband than he, I am sure, but you are far more committed to your duty than to me. Crawling into my bed is not ‘serious intentions’; if you wanted me as more than a lover, you should wear that proudly.”

                Frederick feels as though he has been stabbed in the heart. It’s true, but in this very moment he does not want it to be true.

                She twists the knife: “Virion has no pretentions of seriousness between us, and as things are, he is a far more skilled lover.”

                He stares at Cherche with a growing sense of shame and humiliation.  She watches him in return, notably passive despite having laid such a truth on him. He’d considered that Virion could offer wealth and power and luxuries, or at least could again sometime in the future – Frederick would always be a man of servitude, and he would never be able to offer such things. He’d never considered, however, that a woman would enjoy bloody _Virion_ for anything beyond that.

                Shame comes with a side of fury, but he draws upon decades of self-control to maintain his composure.

                “Would you not prefer a husband over a lover?” he asks. He sounds stunned regardless of any attempt to compose himself. She bristles, too.

                “You have made no promise to me,” Cherche says, sharper, and she holds up a hand with bare fingers for emphasis. Then she looks away, continuing: “Your duty is too much to you, and it does not even stand in front of you; I doubt Lord Chrom even expects the duty you flagellate yourself with!”

                “What is duty if not dutiful?” Frederick says, and he continues without thinking: “You wish to be more important than my duty and yet you still sleep with another man!”

                He knows he has overstepped, and Cherche looks away again and slips out of bed. He has never seen her cross, but then again, even now, she is resolute and calm. Frederick watches her move across the floor with purpose, to retrieve her dress where it had been discarded over a stool an hour ago. He doesn’t move as she pulls it over her head and laces the side taut.

                “It is my _privilege_ to serve my lord,” Cherche tells him, in no uncertain terms. “And in his service or released from it, I do what pleases me.”

                “And it pleases you to sleep with him?” Frederick demands. He’s moving to his feet now, and she’s already got her shoulders square, her stance wide. He’s seen that stance many times, and had she an axe in hand, Frederick would expect to be cloven in two.

                “It would be, given that you disappoint me,” she tells him.

                Another knife twist. He almost wishes she would scream or shout or stamp her feet, as he could _fight_ with her then. He wishes it were as easy to fight her as a Risen, or some barbarian bearing down on him with a sword.

                “Go,” he says, pointing at the door. She doesn’t even wait for his direction; she’s already walking out, chin held high and eyes sharp. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so furious.

                Frederick sinks back down to his bed with a darkness weighing on his soul.

 

* * *

 

 

                Frederick stays in solitude that evening, taking his meal at a table with some of the children to cloak himself in their idle chatter, and then spending an extra hour in the mess tent cleaning even though there are more than enough members of the infantry to do the work.

                He broods in silence until it drives him mad to continue doing so, and then he goes to speak to Virion.

                “I was wondering when you’d come speak to me!” Virion says, bright and cheery, but of course not without his usual self-satisfaction. “Cherche is quite angry with you, you know, very angry… very rare to see her like that. I was lucky to calm her without losing an eye, myself.”

                Frederick thinks that he would appreciate not having salt poured so liberally in his wounds, but he says nothing to that effect – it would not do to give Virion even the slightest modicum of satisfaction.

                “Enough, Virion,” Frederick says. “If you know so well what I am here for, then make it plain yourself.”

                Virion sits a little straighter in his chair, just to gesture to Frederick broadly.

                “You are here to ask for my blessing to wed my sweet Cherche,” Virion says. “And though she is a free woman and needs not a single word from me to seek her fortune amongst Chrom’s men, you have enough respect for me to seek my blessing regardless.”

                Frederick is quiet for a moment, ruminating on the many items in Virion’s needlessly luxurious tent and how each could be used to bludgeon the man to a swift death, but then he replies, “Not even remotely, little man.”

                “Well, then,” Virion says, and he flinches under Frederick’s gaze. “You should tell me, then, so I can get back to this wine. Leaving it to the open air too long could damage the notes of flavor, and you know how I appreciate these little things in such difficult times.”

                “You would compel her to your bed, knowing she courts me?” Frederick asks. Of course, he knows no force on earth could compel Cherche in any way that she herself does not fancy, but to admit that aloud is too much for his pride.

                Virion raises his eyebrows.

                “Sir Frederick, I am afraid you are mistaken,” Virion says. “Cherche has not graced me with her illustrious self for several weeks, and though I sorely miss her deft hand and the strike of her—“

                Frederick scowls, and Virion trails off. He has a very large mouth, Frederick knows, but he is easily spooked.

                “—as I was saying, Cherche has eschewed my affections for some months now, ever since he began slinking around with you. Ah! Were I not a man torn between so many beautiful women, I would be quite jealous.”

                This gives Frederick no rest; instead, he only has more questions.

                “Why?” Virion asks. “Did she say something to that effect?”

                Frederick turns on his heel and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Cherche!”

                She ignores him. She’s saddling Minerva with her deft fingers, looping leather through buckle as though he isn’t _shouting_ her name from fifty bloody yards away.

                He calls her name loud enough that several heads turn across camp, and she still doesn’t turn acknowledge him. He’s forced to approach her at a jog, and that turns even more heads, but he knows she is saddling Minerva for a reason. That creature goes untethered every instant it is not going ridden, a fact which also drives Frederick mad.

                “Cherche!” he repeats.

                But no, she has the saddle finished, and he has to watch her mount the wyvern with no regard for her name being shouted. It is a blessing that he manages to grab Minerva’s bridle by the cheek strap before she can take flight, but even then, he is prepared to lose a limb in retaliation. It is a greater blessing, truly, that instead of throwing him off, Cherche reins Minerva in.

                “Cherche,” he says, all kinds of irritated and concerned and relieved.

                “Yes, Sir Frederick?” she says, looking down at him as though she might eat him herself and enjoy it.

                “I just spoke with Virion,” he says, moving his hand from cheekstrap to rein so that he can approach Cherche without losing his grip on the wyvern.

                “Did you?” she says, sweet and glittering with danger.

                “I did,” he confirms, and he lets himself be brash: “Why did you let me believe you sleep with him?”

                Cherche looks down at him for a moment, eyes cool and the faintest of smiles on her face. She seems particularly dangerous, even barefoot and free of armor, perched in the saddle of a dragon and looking down at him with something like barely-bridled fury. Frederick can’t place it – he can’t say he’s ever crossed a woman like this before.

                “You think less of my duty to Lord Virion than you do of your duty to Lord Chrom,” Cherche says. “You’re a prideful man, Frederick. Sometimes to the point of arrogance.”

                “I confess I was rash,” Frederick replies, “but my pride is wounded that you think of another man when you are with me. I--”

                Cherche pulls the reins as if to direct Minerva away, but Frederick winds the leather in his fist and resists her pull. She looks down at him and he holds her gaze.

                “--I don’t think it unreasonable to be upset about that!” he finishes.

                Cherche pauses, and then looks away.

                “I suppose not,” she says, finally.

                Frederick nods, and for a moment they are both quiet. Cherche absently strokes the topmost ridge of Minerva’s neck, and Frederick releases the reins. He sighs. He has never felt so small.

                “What now, then?” he asks.

                “At this point an apology is overdue,” Cherche says, and she looks down at him, no longer smiling. “I am sorry, Frederick. I should have spoken to you sooner.”

                Frederick is quiet. He deserves more, he thinks.

                She adds: “I should have told you I was not satisfied.”

                “I didn’t have any reason to believe I wasn’t satisfying you!”

                Cherche shrugs, and then she slides from the saddle, nimbly stepping down Minerva’s side. The wyvern doesn’t even flinch when she uses its elbow as a momentary foothold, and then Cherche is before him.

                “It’s rare I meet a man who satisfies me at all,” Cherche admits, but then she adds: “You’re dear to me, Frederick, in ways no other man has ever been. I thought that more important than my satisfaction in bed, I suppose; I did not want to embarrass you for that one failing when you have been most wonderful in other regards. My silence has embarrassed both of us.”

                Frederick finds himself torn between love for her words and a bitterness for her actions, so he sighs and nods.

                “I hope I have not hurt you,” Cherche says. She looks uncharacteristically vulnerable, and that is a sort of intimacy Frederick has not shared with her before now.

                “Wounded but not dead yet,” Frederick replies.

                That’s all he can say, really, but he knows he cannot begrudge her for anything. She is a warrior, as he is; people like them rely on callousness and stoppering their emotions for the sake of their duty.

                Cherche allows him a bare smile, and she rests a hand on his forearm, gentle yet bracing.

                “Pleasing me is nothing a little ‘training’ cannot not perfect,” she says.

                Despite himself, Frederick smiles a little, too.

                “But if this is to continue, I expect commitment,” she says. “In the same measure given to your duty.”

                Frederick’s heart is hammering.

                Funny, too; just the day before he had been unhorsed by a Risen knight, and before he could get up again he’d nearly had his head cloven right off by the same knight’s axe, and even then his heart hadn’t pounded quite like this. The only reason his heart still beats now is because of quick thinking on Cherche’s part, and the tremendous assist of Minerva seizing the Risen in her talons. He’d struggled to his feet and then to horseback, weighted down by eighty pounds of armor and running on sheer adrenaline, and even then his heart hadn’t hammered like this.

                His heart always hammers these days when he speaks with Cherche, though.

                “I find it absurd that you deny yourself something you so clearly want,” Cherche tells him, and for that, Frederick can forgive her bluntness.

                “I do too,” he admits.

                “I have served Virion for much of my life,” Cherche says. “I know well what it feels like to ignore my own needs for the sake of another’s, but freedom has been good to me, too. I will not wait forever for you to decide what you want most.”

                Frederick nods.

                He slips a hand over hers and looks her in the eyes.

                “Give me a few days,” Frederick says. “I will have a decision then.”

 

* * *

 

                There’s thunder on the air, rolling in over the mountains, but there isn’t even a single raindrop yet. Frederick can even see the lightning in the distance, but still, nothing from the skies.

                They don’t need a rainstorm, by any means; the plains aren’t terribly hot, and sources of fresh water are plentiful. Rain always bogs down the horses and makes his armor cold and unfriendly, and it’s certainly never fun to move their caravan through soggy dirt roads. Who could want a rain storm?

                Now, in the early hours of the morning, Frederick feels a good storm would at least mirror his spirits.

                “You’re still up?” Chrom asks. Frederick tears his eyes away from the sky to look over, and there is his Lord, still in his sleeping clothes with a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

                “And you don’t look ready for your shift at patrol,” Frederick remarks.

                “Miriel’s taking it,” Chrom says. “She’s up because of the baby, anyway.”

                Frederick nods. He doesn’t particularly like babies in his camps, for all the dangers they pose, but they also hadn’t expected Miriel of all people to fall pregnant in the middle of a campaign. Oh well, Frederick supposes: there’s never any accounting for people’s hearts, and it’s hardly normal for motherhood to stop Ylissean women from going to war with babies on their backs. He’d fought a battle or two with Lissa and Chrom in tow, back when they were small.

                “Let’s sit in front of the fire,” Chrom says, when Frederick says nothing. “I can’t sleep, anyway.”

                Frederick follows Chrom over to the campfire, which is still burning from last night. Chrom takes a camp chair and Frederick crouches momentarily by the fire to throw on another log.

                “Is everything alright, Frederick?” Chrom asks.

                “Things are fine,” Frederick says. “We have enough wood to last us a few days, and by then we will hopefully be through the next town. Skirting the mountains may have taken time, but it has been easier.”

                Chrom chuckles.

                “Not what I meant, but okay.”

                Frederick sits down on the log bench.

                “I was thinking the other day,” Chrom says, “It’s been fifteen years since we met, next month. That’s a long time.”

                “It has been,” Frederick says. “I imagine you don’t remember much of those earlier days, though.”

                Chrom gives a contemplative hum.

                “Probably not,” he says. “I remember you had a ponytail.”

                “I did not,” Frederick scoffs.

                Chrom pauses, and after thinking for a moment, he laughs. “I guess I was younger than I thought.”

                “I started as a squire,” Frederick reminds him. His voice is fond, though he does not remember being particularly fond of his position at the time. “But the knight I squired under was then the commander of your father’s army, and he saw more use for me as a guardian to Lissa and yourself than as yet another soldier on the battlefield.”

                Chrom nods.

                “The most talented of my peers were to be marshals and seneschals in the army, and I was talented enough to be amongst them, but I earned a position precious few could ever hope to achieve as your guardian,” Frederick muses. “My father recognized the dignity in taking on such a position, but I dare say he felt it somewhat cowardly, for a knight to be charged with guarding children and their nurses.”

                “Huh,” Chrom huffs. “I never really thought of it that way.” He pauses, and then looks at Frederick. “You don’t regret it, right?”

                Frederick shakes his head.

                “It has been my sincerest joy to serve you, milord,” he says. “I have always been honest in my service to you. But in those early years, perhaps I wanted for something more challenging. Herding you and your sister and Nan and the other nurses, I seldom saw the saddle or the blade, especially after your father’s death.”

                “I guess it would have been boring,” Chrom says. He’s a grown man, but on scarce occasions, he opens his mouth and says something childish.

                “Oh, when you and Lissa got old enough, you gave me plenty of mischief and trouble,” Frederick says. He looks into the fire. “It isn’t as though there would have been a thrilling post for a young knight in Emmeryn’s peace, either. I imagine most of them settled down with wives or husbands to have children, in the end, so their lives were likely not so exciting.”

                “I don’t remember a time where you weren’t renowned for your duty,” Chrom says

                “You were young,” Frederick repeats. “Young enough and in enough turmoil that I hardly expect you to remember.”

                “True,” Chrom replies. He laughs. “I just remember you being a stick in the mud all the time.”

                There’s a long pause between them, and then Chrom asks: “Are you ever going to settle down? Like the other knights.”

                Frederick lets that pause linger for a moment longer.

                “Perhaps,” he says, finally. “When you and Lissa no longer have a use for me, I suppose.”

                Chrom frowns.

                “At the end of the day you’re family, Frederick,” he says. “You don’t need to be useful to us.”

                “Of course, milord,” Frederick says, heart swelling. Frederick has known this for years, of course; the children outgrew their nurses a little more every year, and now they have both been adults for some time, and they have always held that Frederick is family.

                In his mind, his service to them is a greater calling than family. They are neither his children nor his siblings, but he loves them dearly. He cannot imagine how a wife or his own children might change that, and though he feels the desire for a family of his own so intensely some days that his heart might burst, he cannot fathom leaving his charges.

                Chrom and Frederick sit out there chatting for perhaps an hour, and by then, it has started to drizzle rain just as the sun comes up.

 

* * *

 

 

                Over breakfast, Sumia shows him a book.

                “You should read it,” she says, encouraging and sweet and sincere. “You don’t seem the type to read romances, I don’t think, but I think you’d like this one anyway.”

                “I don’t imagine I would have time,” Frederick says. “I appreciate your thinking of me, though.”

                She just looks so unapologetically dreamy, clutching the book to her chest and looking at him like that. Frederick supposes she doesn’t realize her hair is trailing in her breakfast, either, but he doesn’t have the heart to embarrass her by pointing it out.

                “It just makes me think that people are nothing without love,” Sumia gushes. “I want to get married someday, and it will be wonderful, getting to share something like that with someone special.”

                Frederick nods politely, instead focusing on his own breakfast. How many hours had he slept? One? Two?

                “Do you think you’ll ever take a wife, Frederick?”

                God, how did he end up with bear bacon on his plate? Surely someone else would appreciate them.

                “Frederick?” Sumia says, sweet and concerned.

                “I have my duty,” he says, but he’s thinking of Cherche, too. He glances down the row of tables and sees her deep in conversation with Vaike, smiling about something or other, and she meets his eyes for the briefest second. While her smile lingers, her eyes are intense enough to prompt him to look away.

                Then he looks back to Sumia. “My apologies, Sumia. I did not sleep well last night.”

                “Oh gosh,” Sumia says. “I’m so sorry!” She reaches out to touch his shoulder, gently, reassuring. “I’ll go make you some tea.”

                While he would generally insist on doing it himself, this time he lets her go. He just feels so tired.

                And then there’s fucking Virion approaching as Sumia leaves.

                “My patience is already thin today,” Frederick warns.

                “When isn’t your patience for me running thin?” Virion says, carelessly. Frederick imagines shoving the bear bacon into Virion’s wide mouth and choking him with it, but then he mentally restrains himself. No, it wouldn’t do to disrespect someone so dear to Cherche, even if he has no fondness for the idiot.

                “Anyhow,” Virion says, when Frederick offers nothing. “You are a great man, Frederick, but all men have their weaknesses. I myself have a weakness for--”

                “Hearing your own voice?” Frederick suggests.

                (So much for thoughts of not disrespecting Cherche’s lord.)

                “Yes,” Virion agrees, and he smiles, though Frederick knows the rat is counting how many times he’s been interrupted in the past week. “Might I suggest yours?”

                “No,” Frederick says.

                “Pride,” Virion says regardless.

                Frederick picks up his plate and stands to take it away. Virion, however, blocks his path. If Virion were anyone else, Frederick might have a modicum of respect for anyone who might stand in the path of a man of his own stature, but it’s Virion, and that irritates Frederick greatly.

                “I spoke with Chrom,” Virion says. “I told him that you have an interest in courting Cherche.”

                “Excuse me?” Frederick says.

                Virion repeats himself: “I spoke with Chrom this morning. Your pride prevented you from asking your young Lord for his blessing, did it not? And now the path is cleared.”

                Frederick feels his stomach twist. Virion isn’t wrong, and he isn’t sure which stings his pride more: that or Virion speaking to Chrom at all. Frederick has seen Chrom through childish tantrums and teenage whininess to their current war, and though he has the greatest respect for his lord, he has never once told Chrom even the slightest inkling about his romantic history. He had no intention of asking for a _blessing_ now.

                But then again, what had he expected to say to Cherche? She would never be satisfied with less than that, and yet he finds himself incapable of imagining a future without her.

                He’s in turmoil worse than just his stomach.

                “Thank you,” he says to Virion, though the words feel like poison on his tongue.

                Virion smiles. Frederick shoves the plate into Virion’s hands and walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

                Chrom looks up from the tactical maps when Frederick opens the war tent’s flap far more roughly than necessary. Frederick crosses the floor like he’s moving up the battlefield.

                “Whatever he told you, milord--” Frederick starts, but Chrom holds up a hand and Frederick holds his tongue.

                “Frederick,” Chrom says, “Why do you think you need to ask? Or that I’d stop you, whether you asked or not?”

                Frederick feels wounded, and perhaps that is why he looks at Chrom with an uncharacteristic expression of frustration.

                “Because, milord, it is not how a knight should conduct himself,” Frederick says. “When, pray tell, would I have time to take a wife? You will be married in some months, and my duty will pass to your someday children, as well as Lucina. Your sister is already with child.”

                Chrom is suddenly frustrated then, too.

                “What, so I can’t raise my own children? _Frederick_ ,” he says, empathetically. Pleading. “You’re my knight and one of my closest confidantes, and a dear friend. Your service is much appreciated. But I do not demand your happiness. I’ve told you this before!”

                “Serving you makes me happy,” Frederick insists.

                “You can have more than one happiness!” Chrom snaps. “ _Please._ You have my blessing, not that you ever needed it.Go talk to Cherche!”

                Frederick stares for a moment, and then he collects himself.

                “Yes, milord,” he says.

                “That was a little mean, Chrom!” Lissa pipes up, and Frederick turns. Where has his mind gone, he wonders, having not even realized she was also in the room, tucked up in a chair by the door. She’s surrounded by vulneraries and elixirs, organizing them by size and quantity.

                “Milady,” Frederick sighs.

                Lissa pushes herself to her feet and makes her way over, reaching Frederick and taking his hands in both of his.

                “I agree with Chrom,” she says, “but he didn’t have to be so rude about it.”

                She leans around Frederick momentarily to shoot Chrom a disapproving look. Chrom just shrugs it off.

                “Well, he wasn’t going to listen otherwise,” Chrom says.

                “Hey, you already said your bit, it’s my turn,” Lissa says, and then she looks back up at Frederick. She looks up at him with big eyes, and Frederick imagines she will always be a little girl to him, no matter how many of her babies he watches over. “She’s really pretty, and strong, and she makes you smile,” Lissa continues. “I think you deserve to be happy, and even if you have a wife, that’s not going to stop you from still being our knight. I’m going to need a lot of help with the baby, you know. You don’t have to choose.”

                “I know,” Frederick says, and then Lissa hugs him tight. He sighs. “Perhaps I have been too… fixated.”

                “Definitely,” Lissa says, “ _Relax_ , Frederick. Stop being dense and go get her!”

                Then she shoves him away, though it does precious little to budge him. Instead, she ends up taking a few steps back, though they both pretend he’s been shoved.

                Frederick sighs once more, perhaps the most light-hearted of the lot.

                “If it would please you both,” he says.

                But inside, he’s overjoyed.

 

* * *

               

                Frederick knows their patrol plans like the back of his hand. It takes him only a few minutes to take to his saddle and head off towards the river, where Cherche should be patrolling. His heart pounds for the entire ride.

                He first spots Minerva, rested under the shade of a massive tree, and it takes a moment to spot Cherche herself, sitting on Minerva’s hip and idly looking off into the distance.

                “Cherche,” he calls.

                She turns her head. The sun catches on the metal wings framing her jaw, and her coral-coloured hair lights up under the sun so that it looks almost white.

                “Hello, Sir Frederick,” she says.

                “I would very much enjoy your company on a walk, lady,” Frederick says. There’s a buzz of excitement in his heart.

                Cherche smiles and sits up a little straighter.

                “You wouldn’t rather go for a ride, Sir Frederick?” she responds, patting Minerva’s massive flank.

                “No,” he says, curt but smiling.

                Cherche gives a ghost of a laugh, but she gets up and moves towards him. She reaches for him as though the bitterness between them is nothing. He offers his arm, and she takes it as though she were a lady at a ball, not a warrior.

                “Where to?” she asks.

                “Not far,” Frederick says. Just far enough for some privacy.

                She looks at him knowingly, but she says nothing. She lets him have his charade, as if she doesn’t already know what he is here to say.

                So on they go, up along the river, walking in silence. When they reach a little inlet in the river, when Frederick is sure that his confidence will not fail him and he is prepared, he stops. Cherche does, too, and she moves closer to him. Her hand is on his forearm, slipped under the edge of his pauldron with a deliberateness that he is sure is meant to disarm him. Her fingers are warm through the fine cotton of his sleeve. Her thumb runs back and forth against his bicep, gently.

                “Cherche,” he says, softly. “I supposed a woman like you would enjoy something more romantic, but I fear I have been swept away by my own heart and could not wait any longer.”

                “Go on, then,” she says.

                Frederick smiles, feeling a great deal younger than his actual age.

                “I had… I had hoped we could court,” he says. He breathes in, as though that could secure his confidence. “I have been thinking a great deal about duty, as you asked me to, and my service to my Lord need not fetter me when there is a woman such as you in my life.”

                Cherche nods, and then she leans up to kiss him.

                And then everything is good again.


End file.
